The Book. What was it, truly? How was it created? Was it the source of skill users? No one could find the answer. However, with its supposed power to rewrite reality, it was a matter of time before someone would come looking for the answer. Somewhere in Yokohama—the book was hidden.
A teenage boy sat bored on the stairs outside. Blood tainted the bandages on his arms, even some puddled on the stairs behind him. Slow, soft footsteps through the snow approached from behind.
"What a sight. The infamous demon prodigy of the Port Mafia, slouched in the snow like a discarded marionette. Are you resting, or simply waiting to be found?"
Dazai tilted his head back, gaze lifting past the streetlamp's glow. The figure at the top of the stairs stood tall, observing the boy. A cloak draped over his shoulders, its edges fluttering slightly in the breeze, and a white ushanka crowned his head.
"And you would be?" Dazai asked.
The stranger stepped forward, descending one step at a time, his boots making no sound against the snow-dusted concrete. "Just another wanderer in search of answers. Though, perhaps tonight, I have found something far more interesting."
There was a pause as he reached the final step.
"Fyodor Dostoevsky." he introduced himself. "No need for you to introduce yourself though, Osamu Dazai. Tell me—do you believe in fate?"
Dazai let out a soft chuckle. "Fate, huh? Now that's an interesting question."
He twirled a bloodstained finger in the air, watching a flake of snow land upon his nail. "If fate exists, then surely it has a cruel sense of humor. Otherwise, why would I be meeting someone like you on a night like this?"
"Perhaps because fate enjoys weaving tragedy into its finest stories."
For the first time that evening, Dazai grinned. "Well, isn't that poetic?"
And just like that, the first thread of an inevitable, cataclysmic entanglement was spun.